


Feathers

by NeverAndAlways



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angelic Grace, Bird Castiel, Castiel's Grace, Castiel-centric, Gen, Implied Castiel/Dean Winchester, M/M, Not Beta Read, Post-Purgatory, Temporary Character Death, Transformation, Wings, sort of
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-15
Updated: 2015-11-21
Packaged: 2018-02-13 05:46:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 12,603
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2139291
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NeverAndAlways/pseuds/NeverAndAlways
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Castiel's Grace goes a little haywire.</p><p>-</p><p>This fic is currently going through an overhaul, thanks to the amazing FaeGentry! Keep an eye out for changes and updates~</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

It all started with a feather -- just one. Blue-black and glossy, it hung from Cas' trenchcoat for almost a day before being discovered and plucked off by Dean.   
  
"Hey Cas, are you molting or somethin'?" he joked, holding it up for inspection. Cas denied it after a long, calculating look, Dean shrugged and dropped the feather in the grass, and they soon forgot all about it.   
  
But three days later, two feathers appeared, stuck in the collar of Cas' shirt. They were identical to the first feather, and he couldn't help feeling a little uneasy as he discarded them. But he didn't tell Dean or Sam, not until he looked in the mirror the next day and found two more, poking out of his sleeve. They discussed it at length and got absolutely nowhere. It couldn't be Gabriel's doing (they hadn't seen him in months), Balthazar wouldn't play tricks like that (his sense of humor was much darker), there were no witches in the area (that they knew of), and besides, Cas felt fine -- on and on and on. There was just one thing Cas neglected to mention: since his release from Purgatory a few months back, his Grace had been… off. He could only describe it as a sort of flickering or warping, like a guttering candle flame. It was probably a result of being in Purgatory for so long, but he figured it wasn't worth mentioning, so he let it go. What could they do about it, anyway? Whatever the problem was, it would likely sort itself out...   
  
He was wrong. A few days later, three more feathers showed up, on his arm this time- and they weren't just stuck to his clothing, they seemed to be growing straight out of his skin. Horrified, he did the first thing that occurred to him: he grabbed them by the shafts and yanked. This was a mistake. Pain rang through his arm like a gunshot and blood spattered across his shirt. He yelled and crumpled to the floor, still clutching the bloody feathers in his hand. That was how Dean found him when he ran into the room moments later, alerted by the shout.   
  
"Cas, you okay?" Dean tried to turn Cas onto his back, but the angel gasped and recoiled from the touch; he pulled his hand back to find it smeared with blood. "What did you  _ do? _ " He leaned over Cas, calling his name, until his eyes flickered open; and then Dean wished they hadn't. The blue eyes that focused on his face belonged to neither Castiel or Jimmy Novak. There wasn't a flicker of recognition in them and it sent a horrible cold shiver down his spine. "Cas...?" Dean said tentatively. The angel blinked once, twice, and then he was himself again. He looked up at Dean with both embarrassment and surprise.   
  
"Dean...?"   
  
"Right here, buddy." Dean gave him a shaky smile. But then his gaze fell on the mangled feathers in Cas' hand. "What the hell's happening to you...?" he muttered, more to himself than to the angel. Cas looked down at the feathers, then at the blood seeping into his sleeve.   
  
"... I don't know."


	2. Chapter 2

In the days that followed, Castiel continued to change. More feathers appeared, sprouting overnight like mushrooms. He seemed distressed by the sight of them. Sure, it was a little bizarre to see someone suddenly growing feathers, but with the way Cas reacted to them, you'd think they carried the Plague. At first he tried tearing them out, until his arms were a patchwork of sores. Then he picked at them, stripping the hard sheath from the pinfeathers, then reducing the mature feathers to bare quills. But even that changed: either he became resigned to it, or he just stopped caring. Long blue-black feathers protruded from his collar and sleeves, and trailed from the hem of his shirt; shorter ones spread from his hairline across his jaw and cheekbones, and down his neck; they were on his shoulders, too, in tufts that made odd shapes under his shirt. They were really quite beautiful-- depending on how the light caught them, they could be indigo, or black, or even purple. He hid them as best he could, but people still stared. This made him even more reclusive than usual. The angel who was usually right by Sam and Dean's side during hunts now elected to stay behind in the Impala or wait back in the hotel room. They would return to find him asleep or just staring, often in strange places: perched on the trunk of the car, sitting atop a dresser, in the middle of the floor, or even wedged into the space between a bed and the wall.   
  
But perhaps the most distressing part was when his personality began to change. It was like a bizarre Jekyll-and-Hyde transformation: most of the time he was more or less himself… until he wasn't.  A simple "hello" or a rustling paper would make him startle as though you'd set off a firecracker in his ear. Perfectly innocent questions would be answered cryptically or not at all. He would become distrustful, not just of people but of objects as well (the Impala in particular was thoroughly scrutinized). His movements would become slow and deliberate, almost ponderous; he even blinked slowly, like a cat. Worst of all, he would no longer recognize Sam or Dean, just like that first day when he'd torn out his feathers. Although his eyes were the same stunning blue as always, the person behind them was just...gone. He would return eventually, but it was frightening, especially for Dean. The time he and Cas spent in Purgatory had, among other things, helped them both come to terms with their feelings for each other. They weren't a couple, not exactly, but their relationship was certainly taking a much more… intimate turn. And it terrified Dean that that might be slipping from his grasp. He stuck close to the angel more than ever; if he couldn't protect Cas from whatever was happening, he could at least  _ be there _ for him. This seemed to significantly confuse Cas when he was himself. He never remembered these apparent shifts of consciousness, so it was more than a little alarming to resurface from one and find Dean holding his hand or leaning against him. And as much as the situation unnerved Dean, he'd be lying if he said he didn't enjoy making Cas blush like that.   
  
  


* * *   
  


  
After a week or two of seemingly-random changes, the process suddenly appeared to become more focused. In addition to the feathers growing on his face, neck, and shoulders, longer plumes began to grow on his forearms. His hands changed, too; a blue-black stain started at his fingertips and spread up past his wrists in a matter of hours, as though he'd dipped his hands in ink, and it wouldn't come off no matter what he tried. He spent hours at the sink, scrubbing and scrubbing until his skin was pruney and his knuckles cracked and bleeding. He became clumsy-- at least three plates and glasses broken in one day alone-- and his hands began to shake.   
  
On one day in particular, he had volunteered to help Sam reshelve books in the Bunker's library; after only a few minutes there was a resounding  _ THUMP _ , and Sam ran back to the library to find Cas standing over a heap of encyclopedias. The rattled angel was staring helplessly at his violently-shaking hands. With one look at Sam, he fled to his room and didn't come out until evening the following day. When he did, his hands were no longer hands. His thumbs were gone, fingers lengthened grotesquely into jet-black primary feathers, his palms were long and thin, and his wrists bent down at a sharp angle. They were turning into wings.


	3. Chapter 3

"Cas? C'mon, come back to us. I know you're in there, buddy."   
  
The shifts of consciousness were getting longer and more frequent. It was harder to bring Cas out of them, too, especially since he was becoming more wild with each one. Cas-- or  _ Not-Cas _ \-- was increasingly fearful and agitated, like a trapped animal. As himself he was spending more and more time shut away in his room or in the library, and every time he shifted he retreated deep into some dark corner of the Bunker.  Sam and Dean were getting good at finding him.   
  
Currently, they had him cornered in the library. Dean was on one side of him and Sam on the other, blocking his escape. They'd found, mostly through trial-and-error, that the best thing to do was keep him in one place and wait ‘til he was himself again. Not-Cas’ claws (his feet had become long and birdlike a few days before) clicked on the floor as he paced. His eyes darted blankly around the room, from Sam to Dean and back, around the rows of bookshelves and up and down the walls, looking for a way out. Sam moved toward him, speaking gently; Not-Cas whined and scuttled away backward, tripping over his wings in the process. He went down like a sack of bricks but continued to scrabble with both wings and feet until he was backed against a bookshelf. His eyes were wide and panicked.   
  
"Sam, you're scaring him.  Back off." Dean said firmly. Sam did as he was told, shaking his head.   
  
"I dunno what else to do. Last time, he was under for two hours before we got him back… what if we can't get him back at all next time?"   
  
"... Good question."   
  
"Dean? Sam?"   
  
They spun; Cas was sitting up, looking worried but very much himself again.  

 

Dean smiled. "Hey, you. Good to have you back."   
  
"How long was I...?"   
  
"Three hours."   
  
Cas groaned and sank down until he was a pile of feathers on the hardwood floor. Dean knelt beside him and put a comforting hand on his back.  

 

"Shh," he soothed, rubbing the angel's shoulder with his thumb.  "You're gonna be okay. Whatever's going on, we'll figure it out, and we'll fix it. Promise." 

 

Cas lifted his head out of his wings just enough to look up at Dean. His eyes were red-rimmed from lack of sleep, with dark circles underneath them. The feathers growing along his cheekbones were ruffled and definitely not adorable at all.   
  
"I'm scared, Dean," he whispered.   
  
"I know. But we're doin' everything we can.  Just hang in--"   
  
The angel abruptly sprang up with a hiss like a wet log in a fire. Not-Cas glanced at Dean and sprinted away, past Sam and out the open door. The brothers swore and took off after him. They followed the sound of his footsteps down a long, tiled hallway only to find an empty dead end; when they turned around, he was behind them. They chased him back toward the library, hoping to corner him again, but he was too fast; he swerved and took off up a flight of stairs. Sam followed him up while Dean guarded the other flight. He could hear his brother's heavy footfalls above him, but not the angel's, and for a moment he wondered if he should go up and help, until without warning Not-Cas charged down the stairs toward him. The angel skittered to a halt at the sight of him.  

"Hey." Dean spoke slowly and softly, as though to an animal or young child. "It's okay. We're not gonna hurt you, buddy.  Why don't you just come down here, and we'll, uh..."  _ We'll what? Lock you in a room until whatever-this-is blows over? Smooth, Dean. _  "... why don't you just come down here. You're gonna be okay." As he spoke, he slowly climbed the stairs toward the angel.  _ Maybe if I can just get close enough... _

  
Not-Cas had other ideas. He turned and tried to escape back the way he came, but Sam stepped forward to block him. Frightened eyes looked Sam up and down, then turned to Dean. Not-Cas hunkered down as if in surrender, and Dean continued to edge toward him-- until he jumped. A clawed foot hit Dean squarely in the chest, knocking him to the ground. Not-Cas veered around him and barrelled down the stairs with Sam in pursuit; Dean jumped to his feet and followed them. The angel glanced over his shoulder, and Sam seized the opportunity to get in front of him They were at the balcony now. With Sam in front of him and Dean behind, Not-Cas seemed to be trapped.  He looked around frantically. Then he unfolded his wings-- each nearly five feet in length--  _ and launched himself over the railing _ .   
  
"No-- no--  _ NO---! _ " Dean grabbed for him, hands clutching at nothing. The angel seemed to hang in the air for a moment, wings spread and trench coat billowing. But they couldn't support him, and he fell in an almost-graceful arc to the stone floor below, where he landed in a heap with a sickening  _ THUD _ . Dean scrambled down the stairs, taking them two or three at a time, and was at his side within moments.   
  
"Cas?  _ Cas--? _ Sonofabitch, please don't be dead..." Not-Cas was motionless, Dean was almost afraid to touch him. One leg was bent at an awkward angle, and his wings were pinned beneath his chest. "Cas? C'mon, babe. Say something, move,  _ anything...! _ " Under any other circumstances, that term of endearment would have embarrassed the hell out of Dean. Right now he couldn’t care less. If Cas was hurt-- or worse-- he'd be to blame, and he didn't think he could live with that. Then Cas shifted, groaning low in his throat, and Dean let out a breath he didn't know he'd been holding.  

 

"Oh, thank God." The angel began to sit up. "Hey, careful. Take it easy." Dean helped with a hand on his shoulder. The angel's eyes were squeezed shut; Dean almost wanted them to stay that way. But then they cracked open and, to his relief, a familiar gaze met his own. Cas looked around the room, up at the high ceiling and the balcony where Sam still stood, then down at himself.  He tried to move his leg, and grimaced.  

 

"What happened? Why am I--?" his voice cracked and trailed off.   
  
"You, uh..." For once, Dean found himself at a loss for words. "You jumped," he finished lamely. Cas' face fell. Without a word, he sagged forward against Dean’s chest and buried his face in the crook of Dean’s neck, making Dean's heart leap in spite of himself. Tentatively, he put one arm around the angel, then the other. He stroked Cas' wing with one hand; it was just as soft as he'd imagined it to be. Cas made a sad sound and nestled closer to him.  

  
"'s okay," Dean murmured.  "I'm right here.  I'm not goin' anywhere."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, comments/feedback are more than welcome; I'd love to hear what you think of the story! :3


	4. Chapter 4

It had been four days since Castiel's last shift, and he still hadn't come back. Most of Sam and Dean's time was divided now between taking care of him and looking for answers. While Dean tried to keep not-Cas from running away or tearing the Bunker apart or both, Sam combed through every academic database he knew from his days at Stanford; then Sam would take over and Dean would pick up where he left off. Not-Cas had calmed down, relatively speaking, since his jump from the balcony-- his injured leg slowed him down somewhat. He still showed no sign of recognizing either brother, but at least he seemed a little more comfortable around them...especially Sam. Dean hated that. He'd never admit it, because he liked to think he was a good brother to Sam and besides, this was a stupid thing to get mad about, but  _ damn it _ , Cas was  _ HIS _ . Well, not  _ his _ , but...they were  _ together _ . They were an item. And yet here was Not-Cas, gravitating to Sam like a big, morose baby bird in a trenchcoat. He seemed a bit less feral whenever Sam approached him or talked to him; with Dean he was like a cornered animal, all wild-eyed and cringing. It hurt more than Dean cared to admit.   
  
And they were still at a complete loss for answers. They had scoured every inch of the library; Sam had just about exhausted every academic and literary database he knew of, and even gotten ahold of one of his former professors. Nothing helped. They were hung up on more times in those four days than they had been in all their years of Hunting.   
  
"Ellen," said Dean one evening, out of the blue. He and Sam were in the library, papers and books and scrolls spread from one end of the table to the other. Not-Cas was dozing in an adjacent room; he slept even less now than he did when he was himself. Sam peered at his brother across a sea of paper. He looked almost half-asleep. "Pardon?"   
  
"Ellen, Sammy. Ellen Harvelle. Owns the Roadhouse."   
  
"I know who she is. What about her?" He put on a bitchface at Dean's exasperated sigh. "I don't actually read minds, believe it or not."   
  
"Ellen knows more about Hunting than you, me, and Garth combined. Even if she doesn't know exactly what's wrong with Cas, she might know how to help him."   
  
Sam looked around at the piles on the table and sighed. "Can't hurt...it's not like we're getting anywhere with this." He snapped his book shut. Then, leaning back and tilting his chair toward the wall, he stretched with a chorus of pops and clicks from various joints. "First thing tomorrow, we'll go to the Roadhouse. I'll call Garth and ask if he can spare an hour or two to stay with Cas." Dean yawned enormously, and Sam gave him a knowing look. "In the meantime, why don't you go to bed. I'll keep an eye on Cas tonight."   
  
Dean didn't even protest. He stood up from the table and thwacked his brother gently on the arm as he walked by. "Thanks, Sammy. I owe you one."

  
* * *   
  


Dean was wide-awake and ready to go by 9:00 the next morning. Or at least he was ready to go…the wide-awake part could take some time. Nine o'clock was pretty early for him. He shuffled down to the room where Not-Cas was presumably still sleeping, pulling on his jacket as he went. Upon opening the door he was greeted by a flurry of blue-black wings and a yelp from his brother; he lowered his hands from his face to see not-Cas huddled in a corner, and Sam brushing a few stray feathers from his laptop. "Good morning to you, too. Do I wanna know what happened?"   
  
Sam stifled a yawn. "He was curious about the laptop. Then you opened the door and scared him."   
  
"Any change?" The brothers looked across the room at the angel. He stared back, unseeing.   
  
"No. I've tried just about everything. I dunno if he's possessed, or…  maybe Purgatory hit him harder than we thought? He barely responds to his name. Or anything else, for that matter." Sam startled slightly, as though remembering something. "Oh. Garth's gonna be here in--" he peered at his watch. "...soon. Maybe 15 minutes."   
  
His brother chuckled. "I'll make coffee."   
  
"You're awesome."   
  
"Yeah, I know."   
  
Dean walked slowly over to the angel in the corner. "Hey, Cas. If you're in there and you can hear me…we're still lookin' for answers. Me an' Sam are gonna talk to Ellen Harvelle; if anyone knows how to fix this, it'll be her." Though Cas hadn't said a word since his latest shift, Dean still talked to him, or tried to. Even if he didn't hear or understand, it at least made Dean feel a little better. He looked Not-Cas up and down. He had pressed himself against the wall as though trying to disappear into it. "You didn't understand a word of that, did you." Not-Cas pressed himself further into the wall. "...Yeah, okay." He turned to his brother.

 

“Let’s go, Sammy.”   
  


  
* * *   
  


  
"Hey, guys."   
  
Dean and Sam nearly jumped out of their skin. Garth stood in the Bunker kitchen doorway, looking rather smug, a messenger bag hanging from one scrawny shoulder. Dean glowered at him. 

_ "How did you--?" _ All entrances to the Men of Letters' Bunker were locked, not to mentioned warded. Knowing Garth, though, that wouldn't be much of an obstacle. "Never mind, I don't wanna know." it was bad enough that he kept tabs on their location with GPS.

  
Garth shrugged. "You've been Garthed."   
  
"Dude, don't say that. That's creepy."   
  
Sam gulped down the last of his coffee and deposited the mug in the sink. "Thanks for agreeing to keep an eye on Cas." he said. "I can't guarantee it'll be easy, but as long as you can keep him inside the Bunker and make sure he doesn't demolish the place, that's great."   
  
Garth arched one eyebrow. "It's that bad, huh?"   
  
Sam rolled up his sleeve to reveal a long, jagged gash on his upper arm, just barely healed over. "It's that bad."   
  
"And you still don't know what's wrong with him."   
  
"No clue. That's why we're going to see Ellen. She's helped us out of plenty of tight spots before, hopefully she can help us outta this one."   
  
Garth made a noncommittal noise. "Where is he now?"   
  
"We've gotten him to stay in an extra room downstairs; I'll show you, c'mon." Sam squeezed past Garth and beckoned for him to follow. He led the way out of the kitchen, through the library, across the balcony and down two flights of stairs to the ground floor. The room in question was at the end of a rarely-used hallway; they opened the door to find not-Cas standing hunched in the corner with his face to the wall. He gave no indication that he knew they were there. Garth was skeptical.   
  
"He doesn't seem all that bad."   
  
"Neither does an Acheri, 'til you get real close," said Dean.   
  
"Point taken."   
  
Sam was edging meaningfully toward the door. "We'll have our phones on us," he said, "so call if anything happens. Just try to keep him in one place, don't let him hurt himself--"   
  
"And don't feed him after midnight. Got it." Garth plunked himself and his messenger bag down beside the door and pulled out a book. You had to hand it to the guy: nothing seemed to faze him. He settled into his book as Sam and Dean's footsteps faded away down the hall. And in his corner, not-Cas perked up.

  
* * *   
  


The Roadhouse was still closed when Sam and Dean arrived. They parked the Impala beneath a tree and walked to the front door. Sam knocked, quietly at first, then louder when there was no answer. There was an expectant pause. Then a voice filtered through.

"We're closed." It was a woman's voice, but gruff. The kind of voice that just might have a shotgun behind it.

"Ellen, it's us." said Dean.

 

"Gotta be more specific than that."

 

"It's Dean and Sam."

 

"The Winchester boys?"

 

"Yes ma'am."

 

Another pause. A lock clattered, the deadbolt clicked, and the door slowly opened. Ellen looked them up and down.

 

"What do you want?" she asked.

 

"We need to talk." said Sam.

 

Ellen nodded and moved aside to let them pass. As the deadbolt clicked back into place, she said, "I doubt you boys came all the way here just to chat, though. Which means you've either got news for me, or you've got a problem. Which is it?"

 

"We've, uh...We've got a problem." said Dean.

  
"Figured as much." Ellen led Dean and Sam to a table at the back of the room. A row of chairs sat on top of it; she took one down and motioned for them to do the same. "Pull up a chair, let's hear it. I've got half an hour till I have to open the place."                          
  
And so Dean told her, from start to finish, everything that had happened to Castiel in the past few weeks, from the appearance of the first feather to his jump from the balcony and everything in between. He even brought out a feather that he'd picked up from the angel's coat. Ellen listened closely, twirling the feather in her fingers and asking the occasional question. When he'd finished, there was a moment of silence as Ellen stared at the feather, lost in thought. At last she looked up at Sam and Dean, and shook her head. "I'll be honest: I've got no clue what's going on with him. My experience with angels usually involves staying away from 'em." Dean's hopeful look evaporated.   
  
"But," Ellen continued, "since the guy  _ IS _ an angel, you might wanna try his next of kin for some answers. It sounds like they might listen to you, so why not go to them?"   
  
Sam and Dean exchanged a dubious look. Aside from Cas (and Gabriel, sometimes), they weren't on the best of terms with most angels. Frankly, as far as Dean was concerned, he'd rather have a heart-to-heart chat with Crowley than deal with those smug bastards. But really, what choice did they have?   
  
"We're out of options, Dean," Sam was saying. "I don't like the idea any more than you do, but we have to at least try."   
  
"I know, I know..." Dean got up from the table with the groan of chair legs on the hard floor. "Thanks for your help," he said to Ellen. Then to his brother: "C'mon, Sammy. We got some work to do."   
  
They were halfway across the parking lot when Sam's phone rang. He answered it without breaking his stride. "Hey Garth, what's…  slow down, I can barely--" he stopped. " _ He what? _ Are you okay?  …   _ son of a bitch _ . Okay, we're on our way." When he finally turned to Dean, his face was pale. "Cas is gone."


	5. Chapter 5

Only a handful of people had ever seen Dean truly scared. Sam was one of them, of course, but now Ellen, Jo, and Garth were on the list. All day, they'd been scouring the land around the Bunker for any sign of Castiel, and had found nothing but blackberry bushes. Lots of them. Dean was at his wits’ end; if not-Cas really was running loose, he could cause a lot of damage-- not to mention a panic if someone found him. And what if he shifted back to himself in the middle of nowhere? Even when the rest of the group started to tire, Dean was still tearing around through the forest and calling his name. Only when a thunderstorm rolled in did he finally agree to stop for the day.   
  
Cold, tired, covered with scratches, and now soaked to the skin as well, they returned to the Bunker in a straggling line. It wasn't much warmer in there than outside, but at least it was dry. Dean went straight to the library while the others convened in the kitchen. When Sam arrived, pulling on a fresh, dry shirt, he found his brother bustling around collecting things from various shelves and drawers. Herbs from one drawer were piled on the table next to the bleached-white skull of some indeterminate small animal; a candle was stuffed in his pocket along with a piece of chalk. From another drawer came a ceremonial dagger that he stuck into his belt; a heavy, leather-bound book was taken down from its shelf and placed beside the skull and herbs. Sam just watched, arms folded. "You forgot the salt," he said as Dean hurried past.   
  
"Right, thanks," came the distracted reply. Sam sighed.   
  
"Dean, have you even eaten today?" he asked as his brother hurried by again. "... or held still for more than two minutes?" he added. Dean paused just long enough to glare at him. Sam returned the look with a cool stare.   
  
"Look, Sam," Dean sighed, collecting his supplies into a box, "Cas is an angel. He's thousands of years old, strong enough to lift us both out of Hell, and we don't even know what he really looks like 'cause it'd burn our eyes out. He's also turning into some kind of bird monster for reasons nobody seems to know, and he doesn't recognize us. And now he's running around by himself somewhere. I dunno about you, but I don't feel much like sitting still." He hoisted the box up off the table. "I want some answers." With that, Dean pushed past Sam and rattled away down the hall.   
  
  


* * *   
  


The summoning ceremony was done. Dean sat back and waved a tendril of herb-scented smoke away from his face. Normally, Gabriel wasn't someone he would voluntarily talk to, but he needed answers. Cas was out there somewhere; he had to find out where. "C'mon, you sonofabitch," Dean muttered. "Where are you?"   
  
"I'm right here," said a voice that seemed to be all around him. As it echoed off the stone walls it seemed to condense, and suddenly a smallish man stood before him. "D'you mind telling me why I've been summoned, before you start calling me names?" Gabriel crossed his arms with a look of deep disapproval. Dean had to bite back a smart remark.   
  
"I'm waiting," said Gabriel. "Or are we playing charades?"   
  
Dean huffed out a sigh. "Castiel is sick."   
  
"Oh, well, good for him!" the angel rolled his eyes. "You brought me all the way here just to tell me that?"   
  
"We thought maybe you could help. But I guess that's too much to ask."   
  
"Help? What d'you expect me to do? Make soup? Read him a story? I thought that'd be  _ your _ job, Dean-o."   
  
"He's not sick in that sense." Dean fumbled for the right words. "He's… changed."   
  
This seemed to pique Gabriel's interest. "Yeah? Changed how?"   
  
So Dean told him. When he was done, the angel clapped. "Nice story, Winchester," he drawled. “but I still don't see why you're getting me involved."   
  
"We were hoping you'd know where he is."   
  
Gabriel let out a derisive snort. "Alright. Let's assume I do know where your beloved mutant is; what makes you think I'll be inclined to help you?"   
  
"You’re his brother."   
  
"So? Not everyone has the same kind of wonderful brotherly bond as you and Sam. And Castiel is a big boy, he can take care of himself."   
  
"Just answer the goddamn question."   
  
"What's the magic word?" Gabriel wheedled. Dean badly wanted to hit him.   
  
"Please," he said reluctantly. "Cas is already in trouble; we have to find him before he gets worse, and we're out of options.  _ PLEASE _ , stop messing around and just tell me where the hell he is."   
  
The angel's amber eyes glinted. "Much better. Now, as to the whereabouts of my brother dearest..." he threw up his hands and a wide, mischievous grin spread across his face. "I haven't a clue."   
  
_ "WHAT?" _ It was Dean's turn to roll his eyes. "You made me jump through hoops just to tell me that?”   
  
"Yeah, pretty much."   
  
Dean groaned and turned away. "Why did I even bother calling you here?"   
  
"Admit it, you missed me." Gabriel was standing with his hands on his hips, perfectly relaxed. He was having a great time. Dean nearly punched him out right then and there, but instead he jammed his hands into his pockets.   
  
"Go screw yourself."   
  
"I'd much rather have your brother, actually." the angel said matter-of-factly.  _ That _ was something Dean never wanted to know… he glared over his shoulder.   
  
"Just go."   
  
"If you say so. Good luck!" Gabriel vanished with a great whirring of wings that echoed through the Bunker. Dean stared at the floor. He scuffed out one of the chalk lines from the summoning ceremony. "Bastard." he grumbled. Another pair of shoes moved into his line of sight: plain brown boots, well-worn, with the beginning of a hole in one toe.   
  
"How'd it go?" asked the shoes' owner, who turned out to be Garth.   
  
"It didn't. Shoulda known better than to ask *him* for help." Dean scuffed out another line, and swore. "How hard can it be to find one angel?"   
  
"Depends on whether or not he wants to be found, I guess."   
  
Dean shrugged; suddenly he was very tired. And he needed a drink. Preferably a large one. "Go home," he said to Garth. "Get some sleep. We can try again tomorrow."   
  
Garth gave him a lopsided smile and a clap on the shoulder before he turned and ambled away. Meanwhile, Dean headed straight for the kitchen; somewhere in there was a beer with his name on it.


	6. Chapter 6

Days passed with no sign of Castiel. On one hand, the peace and quiet was nice… On the other hand, Dean was worried sick. He spent most of his days combing the forest, returning in the evening with grass-stained knees, muddy shoes, scratched-up hands, and a very dark mood. Ellen, Jo, and Garth had gone home days ago, with promises to keep an eye out for the angel. Every so often one of them would call with an update, but the news was always the same: they hadn't seen him but ‘they'd keep looking,’ ‘he's out there somewhere…’ It was exhausting.   
  
Sam was searching, too, in his own way. Leaving Dean to pick the forest apart, he'd all but barricaded himself in the library. Piles of books and manuscripts, as well as innumerable coffee cups, lay on every flat surface around his desk. Anything that might be of relevance was devoured. He barely slept; he emerged from the library only to shuffle to the bathroom or the kitchen; any time that wasn't spent researching was spent on the phone with Kevin Tran, asking him about this source or that or comparing notes; a map appeared on the wall one day and began to sprout thumbtacks soon after, marking the places Cas was most likely to be. Had Dean not been so absorbed in his near-obsessive search, he would have been flattered (and a little embarrassed) by his brother's devotion. As it was, he didn't seem to care at all for human company when he was in the Bunker. He looked over Sam's map every evening to plan the next day's search, but that was the extent of his interaction. This kind of hyperfocus usually only showed itself during their most difficult hunts; there was nothing Sam could do but be there for him.   
  
After a few days of this relentless searching, it began to dawn on them that maybe Cas was gone for good. Dean refused to believe it.   
  
"You can't prove that," he insisted.   
  
"We can't disprove it, either." Sam countered. They were sitting in the library with two glasses and a bottle of whiskey between them (which, in hindsight, was probably a bad idea). "As far as we're concerned, he might be dead."   
  
"So, what, we should just give up looking for him?"   
  
"I didn't say that-"   
  
"You didn't have to."   
  
"What I meant," Sam continued doggedly, reaching for his glass, "was that we have to consider that possibility, and we have to prepare for the fact that he might be gone by the time we find him--  _ if _ we find him."   
  
"You really know how to cheer someone up, don't you," Dean deadpanned. Sam rolled his eyes.   
  
"Look-- Cas stayed in Purgatory after you left, right? But he never told us exactly what happened in there, except that he was being punished; for all we know, this might be some sort of final act to that punishment."   
  
"You mean like an execution?"   
  
"Something like that."   
  
"Seems like a pretty impractical way to execute someone, if you ask me. I mean, this is Heaven we're talking about: couldn't they just send down a lightning bolt or something and get it over with, 'stead of turning him into a bird?"   
  
"If you've got a better theory, I'd love to hear it."   
  
Dean drained his glass. "Maybe he's sick."   
  
"Do angels get sick?"   
  
"Hell if I know, but it's better than an execution. Maybe Purgatory did something to him-- maybe it got into his head somehow."   
  
"Bravo! Figured that out by yourself, did you?" drawled a familiar voice. Sam and Dean looked around; there was Balthazar, sitting with his feet up on the table like he'd been there all along. He waved. "Heard you were having problems with your angel, so I thought I'd stop by.”   
  
"Who told you?” Sam demanded.   
  
Balthazar shrugged. "Word gets around." he sat up a little straighter. "So what exactly is going on with dear old Little Brother?"   
  
Sam and Dean rattled off their story, which was starting to get a little old by that point. The angel listened as calmly as though they were telling him tomorrow's weather. At length he chuckled to himself.   
  
"What's so funny?" Dean asked.    
  
"It's obvious." Balthazar chuckled again. "Really, I expected better from the two of you; can't imagine why."   
  
"So are you gonna tell us, or just laugh at us?"   
  
"I suppose I should." Balthazar steepled his fingers in front of his face, suddenly thoughtful. "How can I put it so you'll understand..." He looked at them over his fingers. It gave him the air of a school principal about to send someone to detention. "... He's cracked."   
  
The brothers exchanged a dark look. "If you're just gonna mess with us, you can get the  _ hell _ outta here right now." Dean growled.   
  
"Now, now, hold your fire," said Balthazar. "Let me explain." The angel paused for dramatic effect. "It sounds to me like there's a crack in his Grace."   
  
"A crack?" Dean was skeptical.   
  
"Not literally, that's the best I can describe it. Just shut up and listen, please." he folded his arms across his chest. "An angel's Grace is tough, but if there's enough stress on it-- like what Cas went through in Purgatory-- it can ‘crack,’ or splinter. With, as you have both seen, some pretty unpleasant results."   
  
"And that's what's causing all the feathers?"   
  
"Probably. Look on the bright side, though: at least it's feathers and not limbs. Or eyes. Or teeth." Balthazar stopped to smirk at the little shudder this elicited from Dean and Sam.   
  
"Is he gonna be this way forever, or what?"   
  
"Probably not, assuming you can get to him quickly enough. I only know of a few angels to whom this has happened, and most of them didn't last long. If the shock of it didn't kill them, then the transformation did. Or, by the time they were found, there wasn't enough of them left to recover from it. Their Grace just...ate itself up from the inside." the angel shrugged.   
  
"You said 'most of them'. What happened to the ones who did survive?" Sam seemed torn between dismay and fascination.   
  
"Eventually, they were back to normal… mostly back to normal, anyway."   
  
"Mostly?"   
  
"If you lost an arm or a leg, you wouldn't exactly be up and about the next day, would you?"   
  
_ Couldn't argue with that.  _ Dean reached for the whiskey. Balthazar zapped it out of his hand, smiled at him, and took a long sip right from the bottle. Dean figured it wasn't worth arguing and pressed on. "So can you help us?"   
  
Balthazar looked up from examining the bottle. "I believe I already have."   
  
"Well, you're an angel--"   
  
"A very astute observation."   
  
"-- so you oughta be able to find him, right?"   
  
"I'm not a bloodhound, Dean." Balthazar said coldly. He took another gulp of whiskey.   
  
"No, but you might know how we can track him down."   
  
The angel looked from one Winchester to the other. "You're not going to leave me alone 'till I agree to help, are you."   
  
_ "No." _ said the brothers in unison. Balthazar sighed and turned the bottle over in his hands.   
  
"Fine." He got to his feet and set the bottle down. "If it'll get the two of you out of my hair, then fine. I'll do it. But don't thank me yet; given what you've told me, I don't think Cas will be much more than a pile of feathers when we get to him."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, comments/feedback are more than welcome; I'd love to hear what you think of the story! :3


	7. Chapter 7

"Come on, hurry up!"

Balthazar moved easily through the forest. He jumped over logs, waded through blackberry bushes, and occasionally threw an impatient look over his shoulder. Dean and Sam had to trot to keep up. But despite all his confidence, Balthazar didn't seem to know exactly where he was going; he paused frequently and looked around as though he'd forgotten something.

"What's wrong," Dean teased, "is your radar not working?"

This earned him a scowl. "If you want my help," said Balthazar, "you'll keep a civil tongue in your head." He paused again. "He's close, but I can't quite pinpoint it..." the angel cast around for a moment before appearing to reach a decision. "...that way." and they were off again.

-

"Dean?" Sam's voice was halting. Dean looked around and his brother wordlessly held up his find: a navy-blue tie, torn and wrinkled and filthy. Dean looked grim as he took the tie from Sam. First he turned it over in his hands, then he stuffed it in his pocket. "Maybe it's not his." he said unconvincingly. "C'mon." he turned and stalked away after Balthazar.

-

Several miles later found them almost at the edge of town. The trees were surrendering to clumps of determined ferns, and it had started to drizzle. Balthazar seemed to be zeroing in on his target; his movements were more straightforward, more focused. So focused, in fact, that he didn't even notice a wad of clothing in the underbrush until he tripped over it. He held it up: there was a pair of black slacks, in much the same condition as the tie Sam had found, and a (mostly) white dress shirt, which was worse. Not only did it look as though someone had worn it while rolling down a hill, it was torn from hem to armpit to cuff on both sides so that it was more poncho than shirt. And there were feathers stuck in the seams. Balthazar and Sam both looked meaningfully at Dean, who had gone rather pale. No-one said a word; Sam took the shirt and the slacks and folded them under his arm, and they kept walking.

-

It was still drizzling when Balthazar finally seemed to find what he was looking for. They were walking along a stretch of highway, with only gravel and sparse grass to navigate through. The angel stopped so abruptly that Sam and Dean almost ran into him. "I think he's here." he said.

"You **think** he's here, or you **know** he's here?" hissed Dean. Balthazar glared at him. Sam took a few steps past them.

"Castiel?" he called tentatively. Then, a little louder: "Hello??" Balthazar grabbed a fistful of Sam's shirt and shushed him. Suddenly Dean cursed and swerved around the two of them, and raced to an empty culvert a few yards away. He knelt and began to pull frantically on something just inside. Sam squatted down next to him and peered inside to see what it was: Cas' trenchcoat, or at least part of it. It was torn and muddy and caked with matted feathers. Dean tugged on it, but it was stuck; he yanked, and it still didn't budge. Then something behind it moved. His hand flew to the pistol on his belt, but Sam put a hand on his shoulder.

"Wait, Dean. Look."

Dean looked to where his brother was pointing, and drew a sharp breath. The thing he'd taken to be a pile of trash was alive and feathery and breathing. Blue-black wings rustled; the whole thing shivered as if in a cold wind. "Is that him...?" Dean whispered.

"Yes." said Balthazar behind him. The angel crouched down at the mouth of the culvert, crowding Sam and Dean to one side as he did so. "Game's over, Castiel," he called to the feathery pile inside. "Come on out." they waited a few moments; nothing. He sighed. Then he shuffled forward a little on his knees. When he opened his mouth again, what came out was not so much words as long, twining shapes. Or maybe it was both. It seemed to curl and twist and reverberate around the culvert, and went right through Sam and Dean, leaving their ears ringing and their skin crawling. But the effect it had on not-Cas was more subtle: he shivered again and slowly began to move. His back hunched and rose up; legs and clawed feet were revealed, folded up beneath his torso; his wings were held over where his head should be, and Dean wondered for one awful moment if it was still there. At last not-Cas was sitting up, or as close as he could get in the cramped space of the culvert. Dean took a long look. It wasn't exactly human-shaped, nor was it really bird-shaped. It was sort of a haphazard, disproportionate mix of the two. His wings seemed almost too big. His body was thin, almost bony, and covered all over with dark feathers. His legs were the same down to the ankles, where feathers gave way to grayish skin that covered the clawed feet. The feathers, Dean noticed, were rumpled; they stuck up every which way, singly or in clumps and tufts all over the creature's body. One wing had drooped a little, and he could see what looked like a long, skinny neck, also covered with tufts of feathers. And as he watched, a third, smaller wing unfolded between the shoulder blades.

"Cas?" the word came out as more of a squeak than a whisper. Not-Cas flinched at the sound.

"Castiel." Balthazar repeated. "Listen to me. You know my voice, and you know his. We will. Not. Hurt you." his words were slow, and they sort of radiated calmness. "Look at us."

Little by little, not-Cas lifted his wing away from his head. When it finally came into view, Dean couldn't help but gasp: not-Cas' face was gone, and in its place was a flat white mask. The mask was featureless except for the eyes, which were unmistakably crystalline blue, and a scattering of tiny feathers on the top and sides. The eyes stared out at them, wide and unblinking. Sam swore under his breath. Balthazar shook his head.

"Castiel, what have you done to yourself?"

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is all I'm going to write for this particular fic; I've hit a dead end. I will, however, be re-writing it fairly soon.
> 
> /edit: I think I've found the storyline again, so keeo your eyes peeled for more chapters!


	8. Chapter 8

When they got back to the forest, it was already raining steadily. Sam and Dean walked side-by-side with not-Cas between them; he stumbled every few yards and fell often, so they each kept an arm around his bony shoulders to hold him up. Balthazar brought up the rear. Now that not-Cas had been found, he seemed reluctant to give any further help. He trailed along behind, wincing now and then as though hit.

"You okay back there?" Dean peered over his shoulder.

Balthazar wrinkled his nose. "I'm fine. Can't believe you don't feel anything."

"What do you mean?"

"His Grace." Balthazar gestured to not-Cas. "It's like a bloody blowtorch, no wonder he's sick." Dean and Sam looked at the angel between them. They didn't feel anything out of the ordinary. "I'm surprised he doesn't look worse, actually..." Balthazar continued. "I wasn't expecting to find much more than a lump of feathers."

The brothers exchanged a glance over not-Cas' head, and walked a little faster.

-

Balthazar may have been right: with every minute they walked, not-Cas' steps became more and more labored. He fell more often, and stopped trying to pick himself up - in the end, Sam had to carry him the last mile or so to the Bunker. He weighed almost nothing.

The Bunker might not be very warm, but at least it was dry. Dean and Balthazar headed off into some deep part of the building, while Sam was tasked with trying to clean not-Cas up a little. That lasted all of five minutes. Not-Cas still put up a hell of a fight, even in his weakened state.

Considerably wetter and muddier than before, Sam finally trooped up to the library. He found Dean and Balthazar waiting in pointed silence; Dean looked up from the fireplace.

"And?"

"There's a new hole in the wall." Sam mopped his face with the hem of his shirt. Dean swore.

"One in your shirt, too." Balthazar pointed out.

"I know."

Flames crackled into life. Dean slide the grate shut, and both brothers took a seat on the hearth. Their clothes were gently steaming before they spoke again.

"So now what?" said Dean to the room at large. "I mean, we found Cas, but how do we fix whatever the hell is going on?"

"Well, he's already deteriorating," Balthazar shrugged. "it's a small miracle he's lasted this long."

"That doesn't answer my question. Obviously he **has** lasted this long, so what do we do to fix it?"

"I wish I knew."

"What d'you mean, you wish- that's why we asked you to help, you said you knew!"

Balthazar held up one long finger. "Wrong. I said nothing of the sort. I said I **might** know how to **find** him, I never said I knew how to 'fix' him, as you so charmingly put it. That was your assumption, Dean."

"Fine, whatever. But you do know something."

"I know a lot of things." the angel smirked.

Dean was quickly losing his patience. "I **mean** , you know more about this than we do-"

"Also true."

"-so just stop the bullshit. Please. We need your help."

Balthazar quirked an eyebrow, sat up and stretched like a cat. "I'll do what I can, but I'm afraid I can't promise much. Either he'll make it throught this, or he won't." the brothers continued to stare him down. He looked from one to the other and sighed. "Alright, look: if he lives through the next two days, I'll see what I can do. How's that?"

"Fair enough." Sam spoke up before Dean could protest. Dean glared at him.

Balthazar nodded. "Then I'll see you in two days." and before they could say another word, he snapped his fingers and was gone.

-

Later that night, when Sam was asleep and the Bunker was quiet, Dean snuck downstairs. The keys jingled heavily in his pocket; they usually didn't bother locking up the Bunker - save for the front and back doors, of course - but since this whatever-it-is with Cas, they've been a little more cautious. The spare room was at the very end of an unlit, rarely-used hallway, giving it an appropriately creepy vibe. God knows why the Men of Letters built this place with so many rooms and halls and dead ends. Dean slid the heavy wrought-iron key into the lock and slowly turned it. The CLUNK seemed to echo down the hall. He paused a moment, one hand on the door, then opened it just enough to slip inside.

"Cas...?"

The room was pitch-black. He felt for the light switch and turned it on; the ceiling light flashed once and died in a spray of sparks. Alright then. Flashlight it is. The light was thin and flickering, but it did the job. He scanned the room corner-to-corner until finally the beam landed on a familiar, feathery blue shape. It winced.

"Hey Cas. How's it goin'?"

There was no answer. Not that he really expected one. Dean took a few steps toward the angel. Seeing only one part at a time - a wingtip here, a claw there - made him look even more monstrous, and Dean's heart sank at the thought. Not-Cas stirred a little as he approached. He caught a glimpse of the mask and one staring blue eye, then the angel scrabbled away out of sight. "Hey, hey, it's alright. I just wanted to say hi." feathers rustled somewhere in the corner; claws scratched on concrete. "Cas. It's okay, I'm not gonna hurt you." the noises stopped. Dean could feel eyes on him, staring him down. Apparently they were at a stalemate. He stopped and - against his better judgement - turned off the flashlight. A minute ticked by, then another. He sat down. Slowly, his eyes began adjusting to the darkness until he could make out the general shape of the room, and his hand in front of his face. And a dark form huddled in the corner. He pretended not to notice. "So...we talked to Balthazar. Me an' Sammy. He agreed to help us figure out what's goin' on with you." he paused. Either he was imagining things, or the atmosphere in the room had changed. Curious now, more than fearful. "He, uh...he's gonna come back in two days to see how we're doing. How you're doing. Doesn't think you're gonna last long..." a scoff. "I think he's full of shit. But you know that already." he leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "You know we're gonna do whatever it takes to get you through this, I promise." another pause. The dark shape in the corner moved. "You don't know how much you mean to us. So...y'know, you better not die." a nervous laugh escaped him. He swallowed hard past the lump in his throat. "Wish you could tell us what's going on..."

He sat in the dark for a while after that, not speaking, not really thinking. Just waiting. For what, he didn't know, but it felt like the thing to do. After a while, so slowly that he barely noticed, not-Cas unfolded from his corner and shambled across the room. It looked painful, the way he moved. He limped to a stop a few feet from Dean and sank to the floor. The scent of trees and mud and damp feathers washed over Dean; he could feel the angel's presence as strong as ever, familiar but not. It occurred to him that his skin was crawling...that must be what Balthazar meant. He sighed and laid down on the concrete, tried to get comfortable. Something told him he ought to stay.

"I miss you, Cas."

oOo


	9. Chapter 9

Two days may as well have been a week. Or a month. Sure, it was good to have not-Cas back, but he was practically falling apart. Sam and Dean still worked in shifts taking care of him and every time they went down to the spare room, he was a little bit worse. The third wing on his back was joined by another, and another, then four and more, scattered all over his body. Most were small, barely as long as your arm; some looked just like the first two and some - horribly - had eyes. His behavior got more and more unpredictable with each wing that showed up. Sam and Dean could never be sure whether they'd find him curled up on the floor, or hunkered in a corner ready to pounce on whatever moved. After a while, when the wings began to cover his face, this was easier to deal with, but he could still do a lot of damage even without aiming for you.

And there was also the research. If anything, Sam had become even more dedicated in his search for answers. Having picked clean the reference and theology sections of every library in the area, he'd begun reaching out to other Hunters. Now, Hunters being by nature a secretive and suspicious group, this wasn't the easiest route. But Sam is Sam; he can talk his way into and out of most situations, and if he wants an answer, he'll find it one way or another. Somehow he managed to get in contact with a handful of Hunters from Oregon, a couple from Canada, one from Alaska, and another from Florida. The one from Alaska was a 60-something woman by the name of Alice Bateman, a Hunter for upwards of 40 years. She and Sam had been emailing back and forth since not-Cas first disappeared. On the afternoon of day two, after spending much of the day locked up in the library, Sam came running downstairs with a handful of papers still warm from the printer. He skidded down the hallway and hammered on the door to the spare room.

"Dean, open up, I think I got something!" the door opened just a crack.

"What?"

Sam brandished a paper at Dean. "Alice just sent this to me."

Dean held up the paper. It was a drawing of what seemed to be a half-finished summoning circle, with complicated sigils and marks scribbled around the edges. "It's a binding spell." Sam continued. "She doesn't know if it's ever been used on angels, but...it's worth a try, right?" he looked over Dean's shoulder at not-Cas; the angel was laying in a heap on the floor as though someone had dropped him there, breathing slow and shallow. His wings - now several dozen total - rose and fell with each labored breath. Dean followed his brother's gaze.

"Might as." he said grimly. "Let's do this."

-

A quick supply run later, they were ready. Dean arranged the ingredients while Sam got to work drawing the circle around not-Cas. The thing bristled with power; the air smelled like hot metal before they were even halfway done. And of course, it was right about then that not-Cas regained consciousness too. He looked around blearily for a few seconds, seemed to realize where he was and what was happening, and began to pull himself to his feet.

"Dean," Sam warned. "can you hold him still?"

Easy as nailing jello to a wall. Dean got up and planted his hands on the angel's narrow shoulders. "'s okay, Cas, it's just us. Sam found something that might change you back, we wanna try it out." not-Cas either didn't understand, or didn't care. Panic came off him in waves as he struggled against Dean. He was strong for something so bony. Dean pushed back; not-Cas flailed his wings, desperate and uncoordinated, hitting him about the face and shoulders. "Sam, you ready??" Dean hissed between blows.

"Almost, gimme another minute." Sam scribbled furiously.

"Don't think we got another minute!" a wing hit him square in the face. "Ow, goddammit - Cas, we're tryna help you!" not-Cas tried to dodge around him. He lurched to the side and caught the angel's full weight with his shoulder like a quarterback stopping a pass. "Sam!"

"Almost-"

" **Now** , Sam!!"

"Okay, okay-"  Sam scrawled the final mark onto the concrete as Dean gave not-Cas one last shove. "Done!"

For a single heartbeat, everything stopped. Not-Cas stopped struggling, Dean stopped pushing him, Sam looked on expectantly.

Then it exploded.

If you've ever seen a power transformer blow up, that's how it looked. Sam amanaged to turn away; Dean caught the full force of it and was thrown clear across the room. Not-Cas went the other way. Dean hit the wall hard, slithered down and landed just as hard. With the wind knocked out of him he couldn't move or pick himself up, could only peer through the smoke that filled the room.

"Cas? Sammy??"

"Here." Sam's voice. The smoke began to clear, revealing Sam trying to get his feet under him...and not-Cas crumpled against the far wall.

"You okay?"

"Yeah, I think so...you?"

Dean tried to push himself upright; pain spiked through his arm. "Ah, shit. My arm's broken."

"Oh dear...it's so adorable when you try to figure things out for yourselves."

Dean and Sam looked up as one. The door swung open, and who should stroll in but Balthazar. Hands in his pockets, grinning like this was the best thing ever. "I can't leave you boys alone for five minutes." stepping over the broken bowl and scattered herbs, he regarded the circle with amusement. "Binding spell...not bad. Terrible idea, but nicely done. Knocked him out cold." he shot Sam a sly look.

"Oh, so now you really are the expert?" scoffed Dean.

"As a matter of fact, yes. Compared to you, at any rate. See, what you've just done-" he strolled over to not-Cas. "-is accelerate the process. So instead of a few weeks, dear old Castiel will be gone in a matter of days." he took one wing by the wrist and unfolded it. A pearly-white eye blinked back at him.

"If you knew that would happen, why didn't you stop us?" asked Sam. Balthazar shrugged.

"It's much more fun to watch you two blunder along. Besides, it makes no difference to me if he survives; I'm only helping because you asked so nicely."

"Well since you're such an expert now, why don't you tell us-" Dean sat up cradling his broken arm "how do we stop it?"

Balthazar smiled again. "You're looking at him."

Sam rolled his eyes. "You're kidding."

"You'd like that, wouldn't you. No, from what I can tell, being exposed to an undamaged Grace might help. Like a blood transfusion, in a way."

"So, what, you just...hang around him, and he gets better?"

"More or less. I'm afraid you boys are stuck with me for a while."

Dean and Sam exchanged a dark look. "Fantastic."

oOo


	10. Chapter 10

Three more days passed.

Not-Cas really wasn't a danger to anyone now; he could hardly move, he was so covered in wings. Mostly he just laid in the blanket nest Sam and Dean had made for him, barely breathing, sleeping or staring into space. Still, someone was with him 24/7. It didn't feel right to leave him alone. And he was still a danger to himself. It felt sort of somber now, though: "Like we're waiting for him to croak", as Dean put it.

Tonight it was Sam's turn. He hunched his shoulders against the brick wall, cold even through the blanket, and strained his eyes in the darkness. They'd given up on lights - not-Cas' Grace had gone from 'blowtorch' to 'flamethrower' and was breaking lightbulbs as fast as they could replace them. Flashlights worked, but just barely. He turned his on and pointed it toward the nest. Rumpled feathers and glassy eyes shone back at him. The wings rose and fell; one breath, then two. All's well. Sam clicked off the flashlight and tried to make himself comfortable enough to catch a few Z's. The next shift was Balthazar's. He'd need some sleep to deal with that guy.

-

Sam was just at the edge of sleep when he felt it. Gentle at first, like pins-and-needles, growing until all his exposed skin was prickling cold. He threw off his blanket. "Cas? You okay?"

He got his answer as soon as he turned on the flashlight. Not-Cas was rigid, stretched taut as though pulled by a string. He knew what was coming next. He scrambled to his feet and across the floor just as the tremors started. Not-Cas writhed in the flashlight beam, every wing shaking like a leaf in the wind. Sam found a shoulder under the feathers and rolled the scrawny angel onto its side. Not sure how that would help in this case, but it's what you're supposed to do, isn't it? The Grace froze and burned on his hands. "Stay with me, Cas, you're alright." he murmured. Not sure how that would help, either. The guy was way beyond hearing. Not-Cas' entire body jolted once, twice. The two largest wings snapped inward, smacking him in the face; Sam gently straightened them. The convulsions were still going, but not as strongly now. He watched as they slowed to just a shiver in the extremities, then stopped altogether.

Two minutes, according to his watch...longest one so far. Not-Cas had shaken his way out of the nest. Sam scooted a hand underneath him - trying to ignore the burning - and was in the process of moving him back when something caught his eye. Something bright, shining through the feathers on his chest. Had that been there before? He reached out his other hand, parted the feathers. A burst of cold traveled up his arm. Underneath, so bright he could barely look at it, was...a crack. It couldn't be more than an inch or two in length, but the sheer force of energy blasting out of it was enough to make him dizzy. The edges were sharp, like broken ceramic; he traced them with one finger. An ice-blue substance, liquid but not, clung to it when he pulled away, trailing glowing strands across the feathers. He stared at it. Grace? Blood? Not-Cas gave one last shiver and the light flared, bright enough to leave an afterimage when he looked away. And for the first time, he realized exactly who - and what - he was dealing with. He and his still-glowing hand retreated across the room. Suddenly he wasn't tired at all.

 

...but, tired or not, sleep did find him eventually. He woke, dazed and stiff-necked, to Balthazar examining not-Cas. Balthazar had the air of someone examining a dead fish, although he didn't seem too bothered by the Grace itself. He stood up and wiped his hand rather dismissively on his jacket, leaving a long streak of shining blue.

So it wasn't a dream, then.

"Good morning, Sam." Balthazar said pleasantly.

"'Morning." Sam tried to stretch the crick out of his neck. 

"Did this happen last night?" Balthazar continued, wiping the back of his hand on the other side of his jacket. From this distance it looked a bit like slug slime.

"Yeah." Sam paused. His brain was still rebooting. "What is it?"

"Grace. Never seen anything like it. It's like..." he gestured, searching for the word. "like a cracked pipe. Or an open wound."

So he's exanguinating, thought Sam. Good god. "Can we patch it up?"

Balthazar shook his head. Then he whipped around suddenly and fixed Sam with a look of alarm. "You didn't touch it, did you?"

"...Maybe?" it occurred to Sam that he couldn't feel his hand. He held it up as surreptitiously as possible; it was still glowing. Balthazar watched him thoughtfully.

"Oh." he shrugged, back to nonchalant. "It'll probably wear off."

'Probably'? That's less than encouraging. They watched as not-Cas shuddered in his sleep and pulled in his wings. "This is going to be hard on your brother." said Balthazar quietly. Sam looked at him. Was that sympathy he just heard?

"Yeah." he thought for a moment. "He's not gonna make it, is he."

"Castiel? No. Afraid not." he looked at Sam over his shoulder. "But he's alright for now. Go to bed; I'll watch over him."

Sam hesitated. Hearing emotions other than irritation from Balthazar (from any angel, really, besides Cas) was surprising, to say the least. But he was sore and cold, and his bed was calling him. So he got up, muttered his thanks, and shuffled away. Let someone else take care of things for a while.

oOo


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: lots of sad in this chapter.

Once again, Balthazar was right: as not-Cas got worse, so did Dean. He hardly left not-Cas' side once the fissure appeared - he didn't eat much, barely slept either. The convulsions were becoming more frequent and intense; almost painful to watch. Dean did his best to take care of him and keep him comfortable, but there wasn't much to be done. His Grace was burning itself out. It was only a matter of time.

-

"Dean."

Dean snapped awake at the sound of his name. He looked around. Still in not-Cas' room. But who-?

"What d'you want, Sammy?"

Sam crouched down to eye-level with his brother. "I'm relieving you." he jerked his head toward the door. "Go get something to eat, and go to bed."

"'m fine. I was just closing my eyes for a minute." Dean heaved a sigh, sat up straighter.

And there's the bitchface, right on cue. "Dean, when was the last time you actually slept?"

"Just now."

"In a **bed**."

He paused. "Dunno. But I've been awake longer than this for Hunts. We both have."

"That's not the point."

"I'm okay, Sam, really."

"Would you quit arguing?" Sam grabbed his brother and heaved him to his feet before he could protest. "Go get some food, at least. You haven't eaten since yesterday." Dean cast a look back at not-Cas. The angel still laid in his nest, breathing slowly. "He'll be okay for a couple hours, Dean." Sam's tone was a little more gentle. "You won't. Go take care of yourself."

At last Dean conceded. "Alright, **mom**."

Sam rolled his eyes as he shooed him out the door. "I'll let you know if anything changes."

-

He was back within the hour. He'd had something to eat, and even changed his clothes, but Sam barely acknowledged these accomplishments before shooing him out under orders to "just go to bed already". I would've told you if something changed, he said. Cas is fine for now.

Well, yeah...but that doesn't stop Dean from wanting to be with him.

-

"Dean."

Someone was shaking him. Dean unearthed himself from his blanket cocoon and slowly opened his eyes. The face hovering over his bed was not one you'd want to see first thing in the morning, especially with the grim look it was wearing. So he closed his eyes - and was promptly shaken again. He growled.

"Dean, wake up. This is important."

"It better be..." reluctantly, he cracked his eyes open. "What do you want, Balthazar?"

"It's Castiel."

Dean sat up, rubbed his eyes. It was four o'clock in the morning; he'd slept the day away - and then some. "What about 'im?"

"He's in bad shape." it took a moment for Dean's sleep-fuzzy brain to process the words. When it did, his heart dropped right into his stomach. "I already woke up Sam." continued Baltahzar. Dean had never seen him quite that serious. "Come on."

 

"He's been going downhill all night; took a turn for the worse about half an hour ago. Thought you might want to be there with him."

Sam and Dean filed down the stairs behind Balthazar. "That better not mean what I think it means." said Sam.

"It does." Balthazar clicked across the stone-tile floor of the main room. "Hate to say 'I told you so', but I told you so."

The door to the spare room was ajar...that alone was unusual. They stepped inside. There was not-Cas, laid out on his nest of blankets and covered in wings from head to scaly feet. The crack in his chest now stretched the entire length of his torso, staining the blankets Grace-blue but giving off only a dim, flickering light. He was barely breathing. Suddenly he shuddered and twisted like a fish out of water, wings spasming, and Dean found himself crossing the room to his side. "Shh, it's alright, buddy. 'S alright. Just relax. We're here." he straightened a wing or two, smoothed them down and held them still until the fit ended. Sam appeared, crouched down next to them, and not-Cas stretched up blindly toward the new presence.

"It's just me, Cas." Sam combed through a tuft of feathers; several came off in his hand. Dean looked on. He felt so damn helpless. They'd seen a lot over the years, both monsters and victims - laid open, bleeding out, missing parts, you name it - and they knew how to distance themselves from it. Sometimes the only way to get through a situation is to not really be there. And Dean thought he was pretty good at it: just turn your emotions off for a bit and do what needs to be done. But not this time. This time it hurt like hell, and he couldn't turn it off. This wasn't how it was supposed to go. Cas was a friend, more than a friend, and they'd lost so many friends already. More than that, he was an angel. This was no way for an angel to go out. They shouldn't die at all, really, but especially not like this. Someone like Cas deserved to go down fighting.

Not-Cas convulsed again, more Grace seeping out onto the blankets. Some of it got on Dean as well, and he could feel the cold even through the cast on his arm. It had the same look to it, like fluid light, but more dim now and sort of viscous. He ran his hand over the neck, where the feathers grew long and thick, and sank his fingers into them. The pulse beneath them was weak and thready; at first he couldn't feel it at all, and his own heart nearly stopped. "Cas? You still with us, buddy?" he said unsteadily. Not that he really expected an answer...Balthazar spoke up instead.

"Not for much longer." he sounded almost respectful. Sam looked over his shoulder. "I'm sorry, boys. I really am." for once, they actually believed him. But there was no time to dwell on that; a sudden movement dragged their attention back to not-Cas. Another, much stronger convulsion rippled through the angel's body and pulled it taut. His head and feet remained on the ground while the rest of him arched like a cat, each wing fully spread. The two largest wings almost hit Sam in the chest. He stayed that way, motionless and definitely not breathing, for thirty heart-wrenching seconds before finally coming down. And when he did, for a split second, the light in his chest had gone out.

"Cas??" Sam reached for him. The light flickered back, just barely, and the crack widened, spreading toward his wings. The angel took a gasping breath, then another, then laid still a moment. The light flickered again. Dean and Sam exchanged a dark glance. This was it; they both knew, without having to say, that when the next convulsion hit it would be his last.

They sat. And they waited. It was hard to believe that this...thing, broken and burning out, was an angel. Was their friend. More than that, to Dean. Sam had never seen his brother grow so close to anyone, save for himself. Hell, Dean literally owed his life to the guy. Of all the weird and crazy they'd seen over the years, Castiel was definitely the craziest.

Not-Cas' breathing began to falter. The mask turned, blank eyes searching. Dean cupped it with one hand, stroked the wing with his thumb. "Hey, Cas. 'M right here." his voice wobbled. "You just hang on, okay?" the angel's eyes flicked around the room and then, for the first time since the transformation, he was himself again. He looked from Dean to Sam and back with recognition, and something close to fondness. Dean managed a half-smile. But then Cas' eyes widened, and the next instant, he went rigid. His body twisted in on itself, his wings folding and unfolding, shaking from head to toe. One minute, then two, then three. He stiffened again; from the crack in his chest came a sudden burst of blue-white light, so bright that even Balthazar had to look away.

When the light faded and they could look again, he was still. His eyes were blank, staring up through the ceiling, his wings were limp, and the fissure was dark and hollow.

He was gone.

Dean stared. No. No no no no no- "Cas?" more of a squeak than a word. "Cas??" he reached out and shook him by the shoulders. "Please don't do this." he ran his fingers over the mask, traced through the feathers of the neck down to the nearest wing. "C'mon Cas, please. I need you." his voice hitched on the word. "I need you." he turned to Sam and found him misty-eyed, and suddenly he was too.

"I'm sorry, Dean." said Sam gently. Balthazar said nothing.

Dean swallowed past the lump in his throat. "Could...could you guys gimme a minute...?"

Sam nodded and gestured to Balthazar. He stood up, laid a hand briefly on his brother's shoulder, and they left without a word.

oOo

**Author's Note:**

> As always, comments/feedback are more than welcome! :3


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